Oracle-Born
by Summer Leigh Wind
Summary: "What did I say?" He whispers. Scotland kisses his brow. "That we all end." He replies. England barks a laugh. "I must have said more, I know even now that we all will end." The Englishman bites. Scotland frowns. "Don't make me tell ya how, I just couldn't," Scotland murmurs. England's head turns, "Fine". AU. One-Shot.


_**Oracle-Born **_

* * *

It's not that Scotland doesn't love his youngest brother; he could never _not _love him. But, the love he feels is equal to the fear the younger instills in him (of and for). He knew from the moment his mother Britannia's stomach began to swell with the life of what would be England that this brother would be dangerous. He remembered the first vision, the one where the infant just beginning to bulge against his mother's stomach drowned her with. How the regal woman he'd copied and coveted for all his young life collapsed in a heap on the forest floor-twitching and screaming. How he ran to her side, clinging to one of her spastic hands while his little brothers wailed behind them. How her meadow green eyes weren't anymore; instead, they were a green as foreboding as a forest's foliage at the edge of dusk.

Suddenly, she stilled, whispering nothings and somethings he couldn't decipher. Hovering his ear just above her lip, he heard the most terrifying thing he could possibly imagine in his young life; "_She shall fall, fall to the Great Roman Empire..._" It frightened him more than the man's voice she spoke that Scotland didn't know. "_Britannia w__ill die!_" The woman shrieked. Scotland tumbled back, heart pounding and sobs already ripping from him unbidden. Mother stilled, soon, she came back to herself and saw her three born sons crying.

Fussing as she gathered them to her, she asked, "What's wrong? What upset you so?"

Scotland could only shake his head and whimper into her shoulder. How could he tell her? How could he describe? How could he possibly make her understand? Without words to impress, Scotland choked, "Don't leave mum, don't die."

The kisses she dotted across his face were soothing, but did not erase what happened. "Hush darling, I'm not going anywhere, I'm not dying..." She promised them.

It hurt all the more then to watch her slain by a man who called himself Rome, an infant in his arm with eyes a green as foreboding as a forest's leaves at dusk...

* * *

The first time, England's too little to string much more than a word or two together. He was playing near the fire with an old bone, Wales sitting close by minding said fire when the toddler started to screech and teeter in his deft movements. Turning, Scotland watched the tiny body topple towards the fire and it's sheer luck Wales caught him early enough to drag him away from the flames as he convulsed. His little brother garbled in tongues and looked at them with unseeing eyes as his little body contorted in unfamiliar ways while drool dribbled from his mouth. Leaning over the tiny child, Ireland began to shake him; Scotland punched the younger.

"Don't do that!" Scotland yelled, "What if ya make it worse!"

Rubbing his smarting cheek, Ireland bit back, "What if I make it better!"

"I doubt that's possible!" Scotland argued tense and ready to throw another punch or kick him if need be.

"Like ye know everything!" Ireland shrilled.

"STOP!" Wales cried, the two stopped, turning to look at their so often taciturn brother.

"What is it Wales?" Scotland questioned.

The little brunette had his bitty ear held just above England's moving mouth. Little freckled nose curling, the little boy whispered, "I think England's sayin' somethin'."

Coming to England's side, they all listen in hushed silence. "_He'll build a wall...Hadrian...keep barbarians away, Scotland...England's The Great Roman Empire's now.._"

The eyes Wales and Ireland gave him were enormous and gnawing the inside of his cheek, Scotland wondered if this was simply another way of saying he would lose his youngest brother as he lost his mother. Soon, the toddler came back to himself, tears burbling in that foreboding green. Sweeping the little boy into a relieved hug with the rest of his brothers, Scotland breathed in the sent of his hair-it's like grass and sea-he prayed it to always stay so pure.

"What happened Arthur?" He mumbled, "What happened?" He begged.

The toddler sobbed. "No!" He howled, "No, no, no, no..." He would say nothing else and whenever Scotland thought to ask again, the little boy turned unhappy and listless.

Not long after, a wall began construction in the north of his family's island. Feeling the separation from his people in his very core, Scotland deserted his brothers late in the night and hid himself amongst his people past the rising wall. He heard soon after that Wales and Ireland left England too, he tried not to feel guilty, the blond across the ocean; Gaul? (No, that was his mother) had always had keen interest in his smallest brother, he'd protect the younger child.

Or at least he hoped so.

* * *

It's years later, Scotland was big and strong, a man unto his own when he received the strangest of visits. He's busy with state work when he's told he had a visitor. Thinking back on it, Scotland knows he should have told the servant not to let them in. Getting up from his desk, he's met by a pale and worn looking France. Smirking at the other man, Scotland inquired not displeased, "What brings ya 'round France?"

"Your brother." Was the serious reply.

A tad confused, Scotland frowned and crossed his arms. "Which one? Got three ya know."

France's face broke into a snarl. "That heathen south* of you!" He shot back.

"England?" Scotland bleated, pushing away from his desk. "What the kid do? I thought ya weren't talkin' with," gesturing with his hands, he murmured, "the war and all."

France scowled. "It was required talks, nothing more." He snapped.

Scotland held his hands up, "Fine, then what brings ya here."

The Frenchman's eyes clouded. "We took a step outside the court, and 'e-'e-collapsed!" Scotland felt sick. Thunderous, France began to pace as he ranted, "I didn't understand, nations do not have 'uman conditions...I thought maybe something was wrong with his nation when 'e began _whispering._" Staring up at Scotland with piercing eyes he hissed, "Do you know what 'e told me? Do you!" He demanded and Scotland shook his head feeling sweaty and dizzy. "'e told me _England shall burn France's sainted lover...into the Thanes she'll go..._"

Scotland tried to brush it off. "So?" He shrugged, "Ya know how he is, flighty."

Something desperate came to the man's eyes. "I haven't even told anyone about Jeanne."

Scotland felt his chest twang, there was no easy way to tell him this. "Ferget her." He finally said, "She's as good as dead."

"You're lying!" France roared. He drew his sword and pointed it at Scotland, feeling more miserable than threatened, the redhead took a step towards the weapon and then another until his beating heart touched the tip of the shaking point.

"The kids been havin' episodes even b'fore he was born," he whispered, "And every single one 'em has come true."

"Not this one!" France swore and with sudden ferocity, the sword that threatened him only a second before fulfilled its promise with a surge of blinding pain. Gasping, he couldn't stop the way he moaned when the sword was removed. Taking a step away, France's shaky voice carried a hushed hope, "Not this time..."

Scotland remembered hearing the news, the girl who lead the French was dead; burned on an English stake and dumped in the Thanes. Scotland drank a whole jug of whiskey that day; mourning everyone and everything because, someday, England would tell more than the end of a girl or the end of a nation, it's only a matter of time before he would tell them of the world's end.

* * *

The next time he saw his brother, he was eager and thrumming with adventure. "Scotland!" He shouted waving to him from the ship he planned to take to visit the new world. Striding over to the boat, he watched the teenager hurry to meet him. When the boy's nearly a half-foot from him, Scotland held out a hand.

Shyly-wearily-the blond accepts the hand, "I thought ya would a set off by now, wantin' ta beat Franny there." He remarked, bringing the slighter man closer by the clasped hand he held.

England laughed. "Just a few last minute preparations!" He grinned, "Besides, if what Finland says is true, I'll surely win the boy there over as my little brother!"

Scotland smiled back, but his heart pounded; the trepidation he felt for days was slowly eating him inside out, he couldn't explain, but something-something bad-was going to happen, he _knew _it. England opened his mouth to say something else when that familiar shivering of his body began and without any further warning, the teen's knees buckled and Scotland was left fumbling, trying to keep the fair head from colliding with the unforgiving ground.

People stuttered in their activities, deceptively bland eyes taking in the events unfolding for them. If Wales or Ireland were with him, Scotland would have told them to shoo off the gawkers; however, today only he's here. His brother matters more than any idiots do.

Dropping to his knees, Scotland cradled England's head in his lap and hushed the teenager vainly while his limbs spaz and tense. Suddenly, England's screaming and Scotland knew this was going to be a bad one (like the one before the Great London Fire). Those green eyes rolled back behind his skull and his body heaved up from the ground as a puddle formed beneath them; Scotland tried not to think about it. Soon, England shifted to rigidness (like a corpse) and the foreboding green was back and nonsense spilled from those familiar lips. Sighing, Scotland leaned his ear in close and listened to decipher the devil's message. It took longer than normal, he could hear his brother gasping and sputtering for breath, but not a single syllable; fearfully, he lifted his face away to see that his brother was crying. Scotland's heart beat harder than before, England's _never _cried during a fit before, what could it possibly be? Sucking in a breath, he saw England's lips begin to mouth words finally. Laying his ear upon the lips, he listened to England's babble.

"_Brother-mine...Brother-never mine...why do you despise me so? Why do I love you so? Why can I not...why can't I shoot?_" The voice he spoke in was aged, broken and oh so _sad._ Not for the first time, Scotland wondered why England never spoke with his voice, but a future one he had yet to know. Bringing his brother close to cling to, Scotland feared this new brother; he'll shatter England, make him unrecognizable. The world went on, people left and new ones came; eventually, England stirred in his arms.

"Scotland?" Was the hoarse whisper.

"I have ya." He answered.

Trembling, England warbled, "Why does this _happen_? Why can't I _control_ it?"

Hiding his face in the sweaty locks that no longer smell of just meadows and seas, Scotland cannot lie. "I don't know Arthur, I don't know." Once he's helped England clean up and settled his nerves, he watched from the port as the ship set off. Waving goodbye, Scotland hoped the chance to colonize a new country would raise his brother's spirits.

* * *

It caught everyone off guard, it was a nearly regular meeting (beside the fact that Germany has just invaded Czechslovakia), times are lean and Europe's fraught with tension and ripe for conflict. But, here, it shouldn't have mattered, it was just a basic diplomatic meeting between England, America, France and Russia. England was trying to keep up two arguments-one with France, one with America-as Russia goaded the trio from his seat when England stilled. France fell silent and looked on warily while the two younger nations watched with curiosity.

"Hey England? What's wrong old man?" America fussed, making to poke the smaller nation, England's eyes dilate and he toppled to the floor shrieking and tearing at his chest. France slid down beside him, hands hovering over the slighter man's body as he cursed.

"What's going on?" Russia demanded, getting up from his seat.

Snagging England's hand before he could claw his heart out, France hissed, "Nothing, this just 'appens sometimes."

"Happens _sometimes_!?" America cried, "_I _haven't ever seen someone just collapse and start screaming before!"

"Shut up!" France growled, "If you want to be the 'ero you always call yourself go find England's brother!"

"Brother?" Russia and America repeated in tandem (much to both their annoyances).

"_Oui, _England's never gone outside of the UK without one of them nearby; I assume it's for situations like these." France explained as he pinned the Englishman's arms to his side.

"Where would he be?" America asked.

"Try one of the pubs on this street," France murmured over England as he let out a renewed scream. Gritting his teeth, France spat, "They enjoy getting drunk." England's fighting harder now, like he's frightened and the Frenchman practically threw himself of top of the struggling nation to keep him from hurting himself.

"I hold him, _da_?" Russia offered, coming up behind the pair.

France sent him a nervous glance, but relented enough for the Russian to take over the bucking Englishman. Now up and brushing the wrinkles from his clothes, France realized America hadn't yet left to find one of England's brothers. "What are you doing!" He shouted, "Get going you idiot!" throwing his briefcase at America, said nation runs from the room and jogs out the building.

Meandering down the street, he stopped at the first pub he saw and took a step in. Glancing around, he noticed that it's almost empty (but, then again it's only two in the afternoon) Nervously, he twiddled his fingers and called out, "Um, is anyone here Arthur Kirkland's brother?"

A redhead's body jerked and the beer he held sloshed over the bar's counter. "Yeah," He slurred, "The runt brawlin' with Francis 'gain?"

"Well-" America started, taking a breath, he told the older nation all of it. "He was arguing with France and then he-" America made mayday plane sound and twirls his finger in similar motions to that of a falling war plane.

England's older brother's eyes instantly sobered as he jumped from his seat. "Ya mean he's havin' one a his fits?" He demanded.

America nodded

Visibly irritated, the man snapped, "Well, take me ta him ya wanker!"

"R-Right," America stammered, leading the redhead back whence he came to the conference room where all was nearly as he left it. Except-England's not thrashing anymore.

"Get off him!" Scotland hollered at Russia, "He's _my _brother dammit!" America, though, doesn't think that has a thing to do with it; because the next moment England, who could be mistaken for a corpse, lips were forming words in fast motions.

Russia surprisingly pressed in closer with a quiet mutter of "He speaks?"

Scotland began to throw himself at the Russian man, but America held him back; he didn't want to see what the taller man would do.

"He's my brother! Get off him! Get OFF him!" Scotland screamed and screamed, but Russia ignored him and listened with unusual intensity as England's words started to come to coherency.

France laid a hand on the Russian's shoulder. "I think you should get up _mon ami_." But, Russia shrugged him off with an icy glare.

"I will hear what he says, _da_?" He smiled, but it's cold and America's having more trouble with each passing second as Scotland fought him.

"Get AWAY from Arthur!" Scotland howled.

Abruptly, Russia pulled away from the still Englishman his face clouded and strange. "A war of lighting that falls like rain..." He whispered to them, "You know what he means, _da_?" He implored to the frothing redhead in America's arms.

England's brother spat at Russia, "It's nonsense that's what it is!"

France quickly concurred. "_Oui, lapin _'as said many strange things during 'is fits."

Russia hummed his understanding as he vacated his spot on England's chest. "I see." he mumbled, but like him, America believed Scotland and France were lying. However, before he could bring his doubts into the conversation, England's awake.

"Scotland?" England uttered.

The redhead slips easily from America's arms now, the need for restraint gone. "I'm here." The older man sighs.

"I couldn't _stop _it." He sniffed, "I can _never _stop it..."Scotland combed his fingers through the Englishman's fair hair.

"It's fine," he soothed, "I never expect ya ta."

The hurt look England gave his brother opened a thousand doors, "But, you _want _me to."

Scotland sucked in a breath, "That's not true." He said, but by the way England's eyes dulled and his narrow shoulders dropped; America realized the older brother was lying. "Let's get ya back ta the room, 'kay?" Scotland begged, propping his shaky brother up on his shoulder.

"Okay." England relented.

The next time America saw England, it's in London after a German bombing; Blitzkrieg, they called it.

* * *

Years march on, England has his fits and lives with them; deals with them. He's meeting England about the inevitable separation of Scotland from the United Kingdoms; the two of them argue and holler at one another, sometimes, they even throw things. Finally, they get to the point where they're almost talking reasonably about Scotland's leaving when England shutters and his eyes shadow. Rushing forward, Scotland nearly misses grabbing England before he falls to the floor (at least he won't break anything, the floor being covered in rugs and all). His younger brother jerks and howls, screams and thrashes in his arms.

It's as Scotland notices his brother grow stronger that he realizes this fit will be one of the bad ones. Hugging him tight, Scotland squeezes his eyes shut all for a moment to see when he opens them bloody tears cascading down the younger nation's face.

"England?" The older breathes, "England?" He repeats, fearfully wiping at the tracks. Slowly, it dawns on him; this is it. England's going to give his biggest glimpse of the future yet and...and it's going to terrify him.

Soon the younger stills mid-spaz and gazes up in that lifeless way. His lips begin to hiss and sigh as they start to find the words they need to give Scotland for the best understanding. "..._so slow, the decay...but it came, it came, it came...upon us in the darkest hours of night and the earliest of morn...we end in silence, not by bullet, not by explosion, not by anything...all gone in just an exhale..._" Scotland grips his brother's body. He shivers in relief and terror; an end not so terrible, but no less frightening.

Soon, England's back to himself; gazing up at Scotland with guilty eyes. "What did I say?" He whispers.

Scotland kisses his brow. "That we all end." He replies.

England barks a laugh. "I must have said more, I know even now that we all will end." The Englishman bites.

Scotland frowns. "Don't make me tell ya how, I just couldn't," Scotland murmurs.

England's head turns, "Fine." he mumbles.

Scotland brings him closer (the grass and sea that used to be so ripe is barely a scent any longer), relieved and unrelieved; he cannot share his burden, but he can save what little of his brother's innocence remains. "Thank ya," The older sighs, taking strength in the beating of his heart and England's.

Someday, in the darkest of night and the earliest of morning; two brothers curled together for companionship and warmth take their last breaths and fade into dust.

* * *

**This is just really, **_**really, **_**long One-Shot for me. It's terribly AU, took me nearly three weeks just to write out and another couple days to finalize and edit; but I think it's finally done. What do you guys think? Is it good? Is it bad? I wanted to explore dynamics of Scotland and England, but I think I kind of missed the mark on that. Well, thank you for reading everybody and I hope you'll consider leaving a review.**

***Thank you Sori Resi, for correcting my little direction problem!**


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